


Amphibians

by innie



Category: Persuasion - Jane Austen, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock were engaged eight years ago and find themselves in each other's company once again.  (A fusion in which <i>Sherlock</i> characters inhabit a world based on Jane Austen's <i>Persuasion</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amphibians

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oxoniensis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/gifts).



> This story does not take place at exactly the same time that _Persuasion_ does, for a number of reasons. First, Sherlock is a naturalist, and I wanted to be able to use actual scientific discoveries in the story without suggesting that Sherlock predicted Darwin, etc. Second, the story of the female sailor is true, right down to the date, and I wanted to include that. Which brings me to the next related point: this world is not nineteenth-century England as it really existed. Women can serve in the navy, and same-sex marriage is legal, though many of the characters who live in the country and not in London are not aware of that.
> 
> And a gif, to give you some images of what I had in mind for the kiss:  
> 

Lord Mycroft Hope would have been astonished to learn that one of the many thoughts he had had regarding the offspring of Sir Anders Holmes had also occurred to the man himself, as Sir Anders was not often to be caught thinking. Sir Anders had inherited a baronetcy through circumstances so tortured that the title was his only until his death and could not be inherited by any of his children, passing instead to the issue of a distant cousin, but this was not what prompted his thought. Rather, on the morning in 1817 on which his third wife had presented him with a son, he'd felt a brief flash in the vicinity of his brain, more neatly and fully represented in the formidable mind of Lord Mycroft. 

Little short of a decade earlier, Sir Anders had run off with an actress and married her rather than be sued for breach of promise. Not long thereafter, she had borne him his first child, a daughter named Irene. The pangs of childbirth had assailed the actress cruelly, and she had died some few hours after offering her lord his heir; Sir Anders returned home to Holmes Hall with his child, some trunks of Parisian fashions, and a determination to find a mother for the poor infant. He found a better one than either he or the child deserved, for Irene was as vain and fractious as her father and Lady Sherrin Hope's intellect was matched only by her kindness. Lord Mycroft had been abroad at the time of the courtship, wisely investing the small sum their parents had left them, and had no notion that his sister was being seduced into marriage by a fop whose only thoughts were of his sharp cheekbones, golden curls, and lithe figure. The union was not a happy one, yet in good time Lady Sherrin was delivered of a boy called Sherlock. Sherlock spent four years in the sunshine of his mother's love, taught to respect his Uncle Mycroft and to set more store by his own intellectual gifts than his father ever would. The great tragedies of Sherlock's life were his mother's illness, which lingered cruelly, and her death, which still seemed sudden.

Sir Anders faced life as a widower with a daughter of six and a son of four with no more equanimity than he had his first bereavement. With a speed that justified Lord Mycroft's contempt for him, he married again – this time to his housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, a very good and friendly woman whose husband had been dead for some two years. It was on her delivery of his last child that the aforementioned thought wormed its way into his head: the names he had chosen for his two elder children had proved false. Irene was not in the least a peaceful or easy child, being much spoilt due to her looks and prone to dominating everyone in the vicinity with the force of her selfish personality. Sherlock was no fair-haired boy; his sable curls and keen intellect marked him as his mother's child, and he wanted nothing to do with the various diversions his father offered. Sir Anders, considering all of this, decided to trick the fates into giving him a clever and accomplished child by naming him in the spirit of opposition. "Dimmock," he pronounced, and drank so many healths to his new son that he was nearly dead by the time the lad was christened. A winter's cold finished him off within the month, which might have counted as a mercy since his one and only cunning plan had come to naught, for little Dimmock was as dim as his name suggested and his parents' intellects had foretold.

In one respect alone had Dimmock eclipsed his more brilliant siblings; he had married early and married well, to Molly Hooper, eldest of the three Hooper daughters, the acknowledged belles of the county gentry. Miss Hooper had quite a respectable parcel of land and a substantial fortune of her own, and it was deemed most appropriate that, upon the formalisation of the match in 1835, Mr. Dimmock Holmes should live with her upon Hooper land. It was whispered that the other Hooper daughters, Miss Sally and Miss Anthea, would have to meet with suitors of vast wealth or great rank in order to induce them to give up their name. What was not bruited about, at least outside of the families, was that Miss Hooper had been most desirous of bestowing her hand upon Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and had settled for Dimmock only after patience had climbed down from her monument. For five years Miss Hooper had cast her most charming looks at Sherlock, newly returned to his father's house, but to no avail; after one long, tearful night's conference with Sally, Molly had determined to advance the family name by marrying Dimmock.

Mrs. Holmes, Miss Hooper that was, had not a vengeful spirit, and meant to meet Sherlock bravely, as the joining of their families ensured some constant intercourse between them, but Miss Sally had not borne her sister's tears lightly, and wondered if Sherlock Holmes had a heart at all.

* * *

Lord Mycroft could well have answered Miss Sally's question, had he but known of it, for he had had the care of Sherlock since the lad was five years old. In his sister's child, he delighted to find a spirit that recalled her most vividly, and was always desirous of giving his godson the care he so desperately needed. As Irene tried to insinuate herself into his life whenever he visited Holmes Hall, he determined to retire to his own estate and bring Sherlock with him, and they settled there in 1815. Sherlock was enchanted by the scientific laboratory that ran the length of one wing, and under Lord Mycroft’s care he learnt the discipline necessary to bring any scientific labour to fruition. A very fair budding naturalist Sherlock became in his years of study, though Lord Mycroft could do little to interest him in society outside of Hopewell Abbey.

It was a mixed blessing that the child had been alternately sheltered and neglected, Lord Mycroft thought, for that changeable treatment had made him shy and wary, unwilling to walk through the doors his beauty had opened. Sherlock Holmes had inherited from his father his height, upright figure, and curls, and from his mother her sparkling eyes, colouring, and smile; Lord Mycroft, a rather canny reckoner, was unable to determine which would be the greater draw, Sherlock's beauty or his dowry, but acknowledged that the two together would be irresistible to most. Had Sherlock mixed more in society, he would surely have been limed precipitously by some aspiring suitor, but Lord Mycroft was satisfied that no one in the vicinity was capable of captivating his nephew, whose heart beat only for science and whose fidelity to his vocation was absolute.

Lord Mycroft had no way of knowing that, some dozen years after he'd first learnt to call Hopewell Abbey his home, Sherlock had found something more wondrous than science in the steady heart of John Watson.

*

John Watson was the orphaned son of two of Hopewell Abbey's least pecunious tenants, his parents having perished in the first days of 1810, during a winter as lengthy as it was bitter. A neighbouring farmer had heard the child squalling lustily, curled against his dead mother's breast and searching in vain for some heat. Not far removed from his swaddling clothes, the child was brought home by Farmer Croft and immediately attended to by his wife. Lord Mycroft's father had allowed the two farms to be joined together, as the Crofts had no children of their own and if the child lived, he would be granted the lease on both farms. Having consented to so much, the late master of Hopewell Abbey thought no more about either land or child.

The late lord would have done well to heed both, for the Crofts were practical people who tilled the soil earnestly and were repaid by bountiful harvests, and John Watson was their delight. A clever, warm-hearted child, he was bright enough to suggest innovations to his father's labour and affectionate enough to offer freely the filial embraces his mother longed for. But for all he wished to be a comfort to his second parents in their old age, he yearned for the sea as his father had done before him; Jack Watson had come to farming late, only after love of a woman replaced the sea's siren song. John read, by candlelight, journals of naval adventurers and pieced together enough of an understanding of life on board a ship to fire his blood. The sea called to him and the Crofts well knew he was bound to answer the call; Mrs. Croft entered into the spirit of things and gamely prepared hardtack for her boy, and Farmer Croft, moved by much the same sentiment, allowed all manner of knots to be tied in the ropes that had served to dip buckets into wells.

John repaid all of their care by working diligently and earning the trust of his superiors. Though he had had no formal schooling, John made a name for himself by marrying practical medical knowledge (based on the herbal lore he'd learnt at Mrs. Croft's knee) to a lack of squeamishness with respect to dressing sores, amputating limbs, or cauterising wounds. His ability to tell a story so that it lingered long in the minds of his hearers brought affection to match the respect in which he was held, and all in all, his prospects were, he felt, very fair indeed.

The bright June day Lieutenant John Watson set foot on England's shore, bound for home and with a notice of leave for a three-month, was the day he met Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**1828**  
John dropped his canvas ditty bag at the edge of the lake he'd last swum in at the age of ten and stripped himself bare. He dove in without further ado, relishing the luxury of freshwater against his skin. Floating reeds tickled gently at his body as he cut through the water. Sated at last with the sensation of cleanliness, he took his ease, twisting until he floated on his back like an otter, the rays of the sun warming his wet belly most pleasantly. He wiggled his toes, no longer aching and overheated, delightedly; he'd only just got his land-legs back before he'd set out on a tramp of many miles to steal home, determined to beat the letter he'd posted once his leave had been approved. It had been a very brief note, as he'd thought it best to avoid exciting any anxiety in his parents on the topic of the action against pirates at Grambusa; he had earned a field promotion from Captain Doyle for his actions in that skirmish. Surely, he felt, it would be better to delay such news until he could relay it in his own person, which had suffered no grievous injury. There were further good tidings to be shared; he had not long after sat and passed the lieutenant's examination, and was an officer in His Majesty's Navy.

A shadow fell over John's eyes, and he cracked them open to frown up at the gracious old tree whose roots were on the very banks of the lake. Its long green leaves fluttered overhead, markedly fainter on their undersides, so that he could see the ripple of the breeze in them as surely as his body was creating ripples in the water. He turned again, slowly, lumbering weightlessly, until he was submerged from the chin down.

John went still then, for he caught sight of something wholly unexpected. It was a man, a youth really, not much more than a stripling, whose long and lean form was folded into a compact posture, the better to keep his balance on the sloped ground as he drew a sample of lake-water into his jar. The concentration on the boy's face was unmistakeable, and John licked his lips unconsciously as he took in the brilliance of the boy's eyes and the elegance of his long-fingered white hands.

Sherlock looked up from the jar he was labelling when silence descended so abruptly on the lake that it was as if a velvet curtain had fallen upon the environs. He had inspired no such reverent hush when he'd come quietly through his uncle's woods and lands to gather his daily samples from the lake. Frowning, he peered about him, then nearly lost his grip on the jar when he saw the man in the lake, half-risen from its glassy swirl. He could not put a name to the figure he saw: broad, bronzed shoulders promising a pleasing strength, wet hair plastered darkly to a well-shaped head but already drying and lightening, an expression of wonder caught on a face marked by generous features. Sherlock allowed himself one moment of fancy – surely this was the handsome merman king of his mother's stories – before cloaking himself once more in rationality. The man was clearly accustomed to spending time unclothed – or at least bared to the waist – under the sun, which indicated that he was a labourer of some sort. And yet there was no tenant-farmer belonging to these lands whom Sherlock did not know by sight, and this man surely belonged here, given the lordly ease with which he lounged in the water, as if he did not need to issue a command to know it would support him. At home in the water, then, which was rare for these parts; Sherlock peered past the man's figure (with some reluctance, keeping one of the man's well-muscled arms in sight though not in focus) to spy a canvas bag on the far shore and concluded that the man was a sailor. How had a sailor come to his lake?

"This is not your lake," he said. "You must come out."

John had been very nearly holding his breath, as if the boy were a fawn he did not wish to startle, and he released it in one go then, as his heart sped up from hearing such dark, deep tones issue from that long white throat. Almost he wished the lake were his, that he could invite this pale boy to play the naiad with him and watch him slide those white limbs into the water. John trod water, put up his hands, and smiled, failing to catch hold of himself and wondering why the boy's sparkling eyes widened. "White flag," he called and pointed to his bag. "I'll offer my apologies once I'm dressed."

Sherlock ran then, racing toward the canvas bag that gaped open, heedless of where his feet went as long as he could keep his eyes on the man, whose powerful arms were propelling him through the lake at great speed. He felt a dull ache under his ribs and spared a glance down to see the jar of lake-water pressed painfully tight against his belly. He felt even more coltish and unsure when he saw the efficiency of motion the man commanded, and his respiration halted altogether when the man pushed himself out of the water and onto land in one swift, easy movement that made him a blur of brown and cream. His flanks were paler but no less sharply defined than his trunk and arms. Sherlock took a step closer without meaning to, and the man started and glanced up with eyes as deeply blue as the water from which he had emerged. There was a little pouch below them, as if his eyes had been underlined, but Sherlock needed no interference from Nature to know when to pay attention; remarkably long and curled eyelashes made those eyes arresting in any case. The man's skin was worn by sun and wind and yet it retained the freshness of youth; he could not be more than two or three years above Sherlock's age. 

As he was accustomed to do whilst alone in his laboratory, Sherlock spoke his observations aloud. "You're a sailor, and you're either the youngest or the only child of your elderly parents. They do not know you've been granted leave, and therefore are not expecting you, which is why you felt you had the time to indulge yourself in a swim."

John, entranced by that improbably deep voice and bewildered by the truths it spoke, only remembered his state of undress when the boy's eyes dropped to his thighs, and he flushed profoundly, making haste to pull smallclothes, trousers, and a shirt from his bag. Almost his hand strayed to the still-new uniform folded neatly below, but he had too often envisioned his parents' proud and loving faces as he pulled the fine cloth and polished fastenings out for their inspection to do so now in the hopes of impressing a boy he would never see again.

He reached for his boots and the boy's eyes narrowed. "Why are blood and sand in evidence upon the soles of your boots?"

Surprised, John turned one boot upside-down to find where reddened sand lingered in the crevices of the sole. "May I offer my apologies first?" he asked, trying to dismiss the memory of amputating Meriweather's left arm above the elbow. "My name is Lieutenant John Watson of His Majesty's Navy, and I've come to visit my parents, who have no child but me. May I know my interrogator's name, and how you knew so much about me?"

Sherlock stared at the man – this John Watson – who smiled but bore blood on his boots. "Tell me about the boots first," he demanded; there was an _order_ to these things, that John Watson was already threatening to disrupt.

"You must not think I'm dangerous," John said, feeling rather daring, as speaking to a mythical creature surely was, "else you wouldn't be standing unarmed before me, saving of course that deadly jar of water." The boy's bright face twisted briefly before a hearty laugh spilt out of him, and John felt as though his heart had capsized. He struggled to speak. "It has been my privilege to assist our ship's doctor – a proper physician, Dr. Murray is – with his medical researches and procedures. We lay sand down to keep from sliding with the ship's motion on the blood and seawater."

"Truly, have you?" Sherlock asked, a thousand questions bubbling up; he'd only been able to investigate the anatomy of the creatures he'd found dead on his daily excursions, and had never dreamt of learning the intricacies of human systems from one who'd seen for himself. "Would you be able to show – oh, but you're not stopping here."

"Why do you think so?" John asked curiously, wondering about the colour of the boy's hair, hidden beneath a practical straw hat with a wide brim. _That_ much he might be able to glean, and it struck him as rather amusing that his reading of the boy was so limited when the boy had discerned far more arcane truths about him from a single glance.

"There are no Watsons on my uncle's land. And you specified that you were visiting your parents." John could not bring himself to look away from the peculiar clarity of the boy's brilliant eyes, and Sherlock gazed avidly at the slow recession of pink from John's cheeks.

"My people are the Crofts, who do farm Lord Mycroft's land; they have raised me as their own since my natural parents died," was the answer, and Sherlock clutched his jar more tightly, irritated with his own inability to reason so far. "So you are Lord Mycroft's nephew?"

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock remembered only belatedly that he ought to bow. John's bow was slightly more profound.

"What was it you were wanting me to show you, Sherlock Holmes?" John asked, watching delightedly as Sherlock's face brightened.

*

In the first flush of his excitement to become a naturalist, when he was still but a boy, Sherlock had often grown engrossed in his researches and explorations and, as a consequence, forgotten that his growing body required sustenance. Though he had felt his sight grow dim on a number of occasions, a quick meal or rest was enough to restore him to his full powers, and no one was ever the wiser. It was only when, as a lad of eleven, he'd misjudged his strength and fallen into a faint at the very banks of the lake, that Lord Mycroft was made aware of his nephew's distressing tendency. Lord Mycroft had newly returned from London when he heard the servants' whispers about the missing child, and he'd gone into the laboratory made over entirely for Sherlock's use to find the boy's latest notes. What he read (in a none-too-neat hand) were acutely detailed observations of the insect life at the lake, complete with rough sketches of a particular kind of beetle, carefully labelled. Lord Mycroft set out himself, scrutinising the shores of the lake until he saw an area where the bankside reeds were thinner as if some had been flattened; there, hidden by their height, was Sherlock's unconscious form. He carried the boy back to the hall, reproaching himself bitterly all the while for not keeping a watchful eye on his beloved sister's solitary child.

All Sherlock knew was that he awaked in his own bed hours later, feeling safe and warm. His uncle sat at his bedside and spoke to him tenderly, asking Sherlock to take care with his own health, to eat and sleep at regular intervals. Sherlock assented, loath to lose the large hand that cupped his face so warmly, and thereafter, made a point of sharing a hearty breakfast with his uncle each morning both were in residence at Hopewell Abbey.

All of this Sherlock reflected upon in the days after meeting John Watson, after John had obligingly sketched gangrenous and amputated limbs for him. He bent once more over the letter he was composing to the head of the Geologic Society, wondering why those memories were coming back at this time. He picked up the sedimentary rock he'd found, studying again the distinct layers and the whitish object that might have been bone embedded in it, and suddenly had the answer. He knew all too well what it felt like to live but dimly, in the days when he had starved himself in the name of science, but now, now that John Watson was there to brighten and gladden his days, he finally knew the sensations of the other end of the spectrum, when his thoughts were sharper and his heart beat altogether more quickly, as befitted a heightened life.

*

John found much sweetness in being with his parents once more, relieved of all responsibilities save the ones he shouldered for them. His father protested, but John was happy to spare his father's back and put himself to use, drawing water and tilling the soil. He allowed his mother to mend his clothes and feast her eyes on the smartness of his uniform whilst he wound yarn and entertained them both with the stories he'd learnt from the other members of the navy. He relished the wise, pleased nods his mother gave when he told her of the most particular friend he'd made in the ranks, a woman by the name of Harriet Harville, whose father had found his best mate in Jack Watson; Harry and John had begun where their fathers had left off, clambering up the rigging like a pair of monkeys, as Captain Doyle had named them, and had both enjoyed promotion after the bloody skirmish with the pirates had decimated the crew of the _Orontes_. 

John knew he was bringing a touch of foreign glamour into his parents' simple, domestic lives, and knew too that the charm of their contentment lingered at the core of him, protecting him wherever he roamed. He owed his life to them, after all, and tried to pay his debt as best as he was able. The Crofts, meanwhile, once more proved themselves worthy of this good son's devotion, and ensured that he had sufficient leisure to allot to his newfound friendship with Sherlock; the first time John had returned from an excursion with the master's nephew, he'd worn a happy glow for the rest of the day, and neither the farmer nor his wife needed more persuasion than that to send John out for sun-filled days with Sherlock whilst they contented themselves with the sweetness of evenings in his company.

It was not about gradations or even types of happiness, John discovered on that leave. It was about a surfeit of bliss, so that even lying abed at night, he smiled in his sleep and woke refreshed.

*

"Soon it will be too cold for this," Sherlock pointed out, tearing off the prim straw hat he habitually wore for their excursions. His refusal to acknowledge the still more pressing need for celerity – that John's leave would expire within the week – made his tone brusque. "You'll have to teach me immediately." 

"As if I need lessons on the weather from you," John teased, marvelling at the halo of sooty curls crowning Sherlock's head, which surely would not grow any darker even when streaming with water. "Very well. Into the lake with you." He stripped and turned his back so that he could not watch Sherlock doing the same; the boy was but seventeen, and sheltered. He cut through the water cleanly and then emerged, wiping the excess from his eyes and saw he needn't have bothered to try to protect Sherlock's virtue; Sherlock was completely bare, sitting on the downward grassy slope and reaching one long foot tentatively toward the lake's edge. John's breath caught in his throat at the picture Sherlock made, innocent in his abandon.

It took him a moment to be sure his voice was his to command. "Cannot you venture further?" he called and Sherlock looked up, chastened, and bit his lip. John took pity and swam toward him. "Catch hold of my arms," he invited, and Sherlock leant forward, his elegant fingers coiling close round John's forearms, and let himself be submerged, bit by bit, until he stood waist-deep in the water.

Sherlock still looked nervous, and John could not bear the sight of his friend, so brave and brilliant, suffering for his own obstinacy. "Why must you learn to swim?" he asked, chiding and yet fond.

Sherlock scowled even as he tightened his grip on John's steadying arms and felt John reciprocate, as he always did. There was no logical way to explain that he wished for entry into a space in which John ruled, and that he would be happy if John would deign to share his demesne. John waited patiently, as was his wont, and his eyes glowed azure, a colour that made him look like the very spirit of the lake. Frustrated by the impossibility of finding the right words, Sherlock leant in and captured those ruddy lips that had tempted him past the point of patience. "Oh," John exhaled softly, so softly, when he pulled his head back enough to lose contact, and Sherlock dropped John's arms as if they had suddenly grown blisteringly hot. His eyes were seared by angry tears but before he could even turn to flee, John pulled him back with arms wound round him, and nipped at Sherlock's lips with quick touches of his teeth and tongue and then, gloriously, cradled Sherlock's head in his sure hands as he let their mouths meet fully.

Sherlock submitted completely, paying deference to John's greater experience, letting his arms wind pliably round John's trim waist. Far too soon for his liking, John uttered another murmured, "Oh," and released him. Sherlock blinked, wondering when the sun had moved so far west. "Sherlock, we must get you home," John was saying hurriedly, pushing him from the water and following closely behind. "Quickly, put on your shirt."

Dazedly, Sherlock tried to comply, but his fingers were unwilling to obey. John, dripping onto his trousers, looked over and threaded Sherlock's arms into the sleeves of his shirt. Sherlock's pained cry brought a frown to John's face. "Hush now, you've got sunburnt. You'll need to add vinegar to your bath tonight. I wish I had some of the African plant to soothe your skin –"

"Aloe," Sherlock gasped. "It secretes its own unguent, Dr. Lennox wrote me, when I was investigating various botanicals under his tutelage."

"Prize pupil, I'd wager," John said, leading Sherlock through the wood. He gave Sherlock a gentle push once Hopewell Abbey was mere yards away.

"Must you go?" Sherlock asked, and John's face transformed, wonderfully, from anxiety to joy.

"I quite lost track of the time," John admitted, a white smile shining out from his burnished face. "Off with you, sweetheart – and don't omit the vinegar." Sherlock watched him turn to go and caught the cheery whistle John produced as he tramped back home.

*

In vain did Sherlock wait for John to appear at his door the following day, and he chided himself for the delusion whilst soaking in the bath his sweetheart had recommended, looking delightfully authoritative. John had never ventured as far as Hopewell Abbey, preferring always to rendezvous at the lake, but in a summer as glorious as this, what could be more natural than that? 

His skin still felt too tight, but he managed to ignore it through the course of the day, which went from rainy to sunny and back again. Evening at last brought two welcome missives: a note from his uncle to say he would be back at Hopewell Abbey on the morrow and a letter from John, which Sherlock planned to savour.

When he opened it, his eye was caught by the small stain in one corner and he brought the paper to his face to sniff at it. It was grease, redolent of sugar and ginger, which meant John had indulged in his mother's baking as he wrote – hastily, it appeared, judging by the elongated letters and smeared ink. _I would like to have kissed you once more_ it began, and Sherlock felt his heart beat more swiftly at the very sight of the words, or perhaps it was the memory of John mastering him and seeming undone at the same time; there had been too much in John's eyes for even Sherlock to read aright. 

The smile dropped from Sherlock's face as he read on: John's captain had been obliged to gather his crew from their furlough ahead of schedule, as losses to the British fleet rendered the _Orontes_ necessary immediately. Lost in a single line were all of the delightful hours Sherlock had planned with John, and he felt their disappearance keenly. Lost too was the opportunity to discuss with John how they could join their lives, though there at least John had made an effort, writing about his intention to seek reassignment on a supply ship rather than a warship, as then Sherlock could safely join him on board. Sherlock lost all patience with himself when he both smiled and cried at his darling John's foolish, wonderful plan, and the words swam before his eyes. Best of all was the last: _You are mine, and I am yours. Nothing can part us for long._

*

Lord Mycroft returned to Hopewell Abbey with a profound sense of satisfaction, having concluded his business in London with a marked degree of success. He was very much looking forward to hearing of the progress Sherlock had made in his studies and in fact bore letters from two botanists, an herpetologist, and three entomologists eager to tutor the boy; though Lord Mycroft was well aware that his influence was spoken of in whispers throughout London, he had faith that the scientists were mostly motivated by the reports of Sherlock's extraordinary brilliance.

Sparkling though his intellect was, Sherlock was not usually demonstrative, and Lord Mycroft was caught by surprise when he was embraced, those dark curls brushing against his face – so the boy had grown another inch at least since he'd been gone. "What's brought this on?" he enquired, for though he scrutinised his nephew carefully for clues, all he could see was an aura of happiness. Had he had a breakthrough in his researches?

With every word Sherlock spoke, Lord Mycroft's horror grew. With all Sherlock's claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw himself away at seventeen on a young man, who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no hopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain profession, and no connections to secure even his farther rise in the profession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which Lord Mycroft grieved to think of. His disapprobation strengthened upon perusing the letter of which Sherlock chattered so blithely; anger darkened his gaze at the presumption within, that the man had kissed Sherlock and claimed ownership over him. Lady Sherrin had fallen prey to a disastrous suitor without his guidance, and he would not let the same happen to her well-loved child.

Lord Mycroft sought to bring Sherlock's rapturous soliloquy to a halt and laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder; when the boy hissed in pain, Lord Mycroft bade him reveal his injury. The sight of Sherlock's fine white skin carelessly, maliciously reddened was the last straw he could stand, and he put the case to Sherlock impassively, the better to engage the boy's judicious mind. "Can you not see how unworthy such a match must be, Sherlock? You are the son of a baronet and a peer's daughter, the godson and heir of the present peer; this John Watson is the adopted son of my tenants. He may be called to war, which might or might not spare his life or his health. You might be tied to a man both poor and maimed within a month, dear child, and discover how little you truly know of him. I have only been absent for some sixteen weeks, in which time he has come and gone, and so soon you have discovered that he is your heart's delight? Had you mixed more in good company, you would not have been so forcibly impressed by this sailor's charms, I assure you; your first look at the world ought not to have been your sole reason for engaging yourself to him in this overhasty fashion." 

Lord Mycroft could see how little impression his words were making, and was obliged to change tack. "I do not relish speaking of such matters with you. Even supposing that he saw more in you than a wealthy beauty – for there is far more to you than that, and I do him the justice of believing him capable of perceiving it – you must concede that your future with him is ill-provided for. Consider that he asks you to give up your work – and I bear here the letters of several men of science expressing their desire to guide your mind's development – and yet makes no such concession for himself; he consigns you, in fact, to a small, mouldering cabin on a ship as liable to sink as it is to sail, cutting you off from all of the correspondence and research in which you have spent your happiest, most productive hours. You would have no scope for your mind to grow, and to know you were unhappy in that way would undo me utterly."

"Truly, Uncle?" Sherlock asked at last, a tear shining on the sweep of his eyelashes, ready to fall.

"Truly, my child. I would not steer you wrong," Lord Mycroft promised earnestly.

* * *

**1832**  
His parents murmured the news quietly, so that he could choose whether to acknowledge what he heard or not, and John was assailed by the sensation of his love for these good people whose first thoughts were always of him; he determined he would not spoil his leave by mooning over what might have been. In any case, the news that they imparted was that Sherlock had left his uncle's house three years previous, and that Lord Mycroft had shortly thereafter shut up Hopewell Abbey and gone to live at his London residence, the better to manage his affairs.

"I've something to show you," he said, unfolding the envelope that held his treasures. "A letter you might care to read. Not – not that one," he amended, as his father's hand hovered over the heraldic seal on the letter Sherlock had sent not forty hours after receipt of John's own, in which any engagement was disavowed, every line formal and cold as the hot-eyed creature in his arms that lovely day had not been. He fetched a smile from somewhere deep inside him as he produced the missive in question: formal orders for Captain John Watson to take command of the _Ardent_ at the end of his month's leave. 

The smile felt more natural when his mother's arms went round him; he could scarcely conceive of being unhappy in her warm embrace, and his father's proud smile had much the same effect. John's hand was not quite steady – that lead ball had gone through his shoulder, leaving a tremor that manifested when he was not engaged with work – as he returned the letters to the envelope, and a few more sheets spilled forth. "Have you gone courting, John?" his father asked, catching sight of the sketches. John followed his gaze and saw himself – idealised into someone handsome – in several attitudes: locked in an earnest discussion with Harry; in full dress uniform, laughing heartily; and then again dancing with a blonde-haired woman.

"There's been no one for me since –" he demurred, not needing to furnish a name. "Clara, Harry's new wife, is a bit of an artist, and insisted upon drawing me rather than the landscapes to which she'd long grown accustomed." He pulled all of Clara's rough sketches from the packet, spreading them out before his parents. "That's Harry there, you can see very well what she's like. This one of Lestrade is rather good as well," he noted, considering the one in which he'd been laughing; Lestrade had always had a merry tongue. "This last was of a ball, which is a bit of a cheat, as Clara did not stop dancing long enough to pick up her pencils. I think she promoted me inadvertently; look, she's given me a second epaulet."

"Perhaps the young lady foretold your letter, then," his mother said, and he laughed at the sally.

*

"It is well for you that your chosen field of study is not womankind, Sherlock," Irene pronounced one day, inviting herself into his apartment within Holmes Hall and keeping him from completing his latest letter to Dr. Lennox, on the topic of that eminent scientist's proposed participation in a geological survey of Britain. Irene continued to speak even though Sherlock kept up his stone-faced silence. "Have you not noticed that the eldest Hooper girl has been throwing herself at you?"

He had felt a vague alarm when closeted with Miss Hooper, all imploring eyes and pale mouth and fussy braids, and had excused himself to continue his researches. "She's rather pretty, and you might do worse. She'd pay for all of your wretched equipment, at any rate," Irene observed tartly, evidently begrudging that his godfather sent him a reasonable allowance.

"I have no need to be caught and kept," Sherlock answered smartly, bending to his task with renewed enthusiasm. The sooner he dealt with his voluminous technical correspondence, the sooner he would allow himself a peep at the navy lists and newspapers, the better to search for John's name. He had had an agonising time of it some sixteen months previous, when John's name had appeared in the lists of the wounded after a battle renowned for its ferocity, and he had had no one in whom to confide his fears, doubts, and regrets but his violin, the music of which was like a balm to his soul. John had to live; Sherlock wished never to conceive of a world without John in it.

Since that dark night, Sherlock had seen John's name in the prize-money lists with some frequency; as often as War had found him – on three separate continents – so too had Fortuna, who had clearly marked him as a favourite. Smiling, golden, lovely John deserved his place in her good graces. Sherlock opened the newspaper, alight with anticipation, and saw the listing: _Captain John H. Watson, HMS Ardent_. So John had won through. How could Sherlock ever have been persuaded otherwise?

* * *

**1837**  
"It is all too tiresome!" Dimmock said, finding refuge in his handkerchief, liberally sprinkled with cologne. "I'm just as much your family as Irene, and yet you stay at home with her and Mummy all day when you could be visiting here!"

Sherlock knew himself to be ill-blessed with patience, but he did his best to humour the whims of his half-brother, who seemed to have determined that a lack of a father had cast him utterly adrift. Sherlock forbore from noting that he'd been quite young himself when Sir Anders had died, and that even before that fateful christening, Sir Anders had hardly been the model of a doting father. Still, he reminded himself that Dimmock's mother was little better than an idiot, and that the boy had had no strong figure such as Lord Mycroft protecting him. "Have you need of me?" Sherlock enquired.

"It is not as though I have been coughing for my own amusement, brother!" Dimmock exclaimed, exercising his much-abused throat unnecessarily. Sherlock sighed and congratulated himself on the foresight that had prompted him to pack the cures of his own devising by which his brother swore. 

"Let me fetch the proper tincture," he said, then nearly ran into his sister-in-law, who had entered the room silently and unacknowledged by her husband. "My dear, it's good to see you looking so hale at least," he said; much as he loathed such badinage, he had learnt that most people simply could not function without it, and so he partook to avoid inconvenience.

"Sherlock," Molly said, a flush lighting her face. "Have you heard? We're to have guests tonight, in addition to you, of course."

Sherlock had planned, under the guise of tending to his brother, to escape to the conservatory to study the hothouse flowers upon which the late Mrs. Hooper had depended for much of her cheer, but Molly's calculating eye warned him that his brother would be needed to make up the numbers for dinner. "I had not. Should I not stay behind and nurse Dimmock?"

"I'd forgotten those chaps were due today!" Dimmock cried, emerging from under his handkerchief. "Do you know, I believe I shall be able to converse this evening if I'm granted _some_ rest before they arrive."

"Of course, my dear," Molly soothed. 

"I've nothing to wear that's fit for company," Sherlock said, seeking refuge away from a boisterous party.

"You always look very well," Molly contradicted, as she privately thought that the loss of Sherlock's bloom over the years only made him look all the more fascinating and singular.

*

There was no point trying to glean information about the guests from Miss Anthea, whose chatter was voluble without ever once touching upon any sensible information. And Miss Sally had perhaps forgiven him for his coldness toward her sister but was not ready to act the confidante. It made no matter; this dinner would be one more interruption in his work, at which he laboured diligently though without any sense of satisfaction. One lost man in a world of men ought not to have made such a difference, he knew, but, oh, it did. He longed for John, who had whistled because Sherlock had made him happy, whose voice had spoken of love even when his lips shaped the prosaic word "vinegar," whose faith in Sherlock had been absolute. Even as he longed, Sherlock knew that the John who had received his letter might be very different indeed: wounded, certainly, as per the lists, but perhaps wary and cold too, after reading the letter Sherlock had written in his own heart's blood.

John had deserved better at his hands than to be pushed away without ceremony.

Sherlock dressed with indifferent care and lingered too long in the conservatory, not working but just refreshing himself with the varied fragrances of the roses. When he belatedly made his way to the drawing-room, he caught sight of a long back in a navy-blue frockcoat and paused inelegantly; he had not anticipated that the guest would be a naval man. The man turned, revealing a handsome but unknown face, and Sherlock sketched a hasty bow, but his relief at not recognising the naval officer was premature, for he heard, from one side of him, the voice that he would have known amongst a thousand others, and he went hot and then cold at the realisation that John Watson was less than five feet from him.

He bowed again in John's direction to give himself a moment's respite but then stood and bravely faced the man. Eight years had done nothing to temper John's beauty, born of good health and good cheer, and his captain's blue did marvellous things to his lovely eyes. Sherlock looked at the body he'd once clasped to his and saw the slight stiffness evident, even beneath the thick wool of the uniform, of John's left shoulder. In John's eyes he read shock and blushed for his own precipitous decline.

And yet, there was cause for some cheer; never again would he have to endure such a trying ordeal. "It is over," Sherlock said to himself when John offered his arm to Miss Anthea to escort her into dinner. "Our first meeting as men has happened, and I am still standing, still capable of thought. Whether he thought fondly of me all this time is surely insignificant; he could never love me as I am now."

*

It turned out that the handsome fellow – Captain Lestrade, though John familiarly called him "Gregory" – was a cousin of the late Mr. Hooper, and that since their merry band had lost one member, a man called "Harry," to marriage and an exceedingly beautiful wife, John and Lestrade had not let time or distance divide them. Sherlock instantly was awash in jealousy of Lestrade for keeping such splendid company and of the unnamed bride for winning John's evident approval. He wondered why they had chosen to stay at the Hoopers' rather than with their friend, but presumed a change of scenery had been advisable; Lestrade's marks of mourning were subtle but unmistakable. 

He wished to close his ears to all of it – Dimmock's whine, the gaiety of the younger Hooper sisters, and Lestrade's earnest discussion with Molly of their shared genealogy – and simply listen to John's melodious voice. He was discussing the Navy with the Misses Hooper, who urged him to speak of the "brave boys" on the seas; Sherlock longed to hear more but dared not make his interest known, lest he should earn another pitying glance from John.

"The men of the navy are the bravest I've ever known," John agreed amiably, "and the women too." 

"Ship followers, you mean?" Anthea asked.

"Nay, did not you know that for some years, women have been permitted to join the navy in their own person, and rise through the ranks? My sister – my friend, rather, close enough to be a sister – is one of them, and the fiercest warrior I've ever seen. There's no one can beat Captain Harville for prizes." So "Harry" was a woman, Sherlock realised, and more importantly, John had continued to find and claim his family as he journeyed through life. In all that generous heart, was there no more room for him?

"Unnatural," Dimmock expostulated. "Why should a woman wish to fight? What sort of husband would allow his wife to wear breeches and hose?" 

"Harry hasn't a husband," John responded with equanimity. "She's wed to a woman –" 

"Truly?" Sally asked. "I hadn't known – we hear so little from London –" 

"You must know this much, Miss Sally," John said, smiling gallantly, "that there are some women so lovely that anyone with a heart open to love must wish to woo them, be the beholder male or female. You of course are one such, and Harry's Clara is another." Sherlock writhed inwardly at John's words, directed at another but still burnt into his warehouse of a brain.

"There was a female pirate, too, wasn't there? Not very long ago?" Molly put in, characteristically hesitant.

"She wasn't a pirate but a sailor. Rebecca Young, or rather, to give her the name under which she sailed, Billy Bridle," Sherlock said after a pause in which both of the naval gentlemen racked their brains for the name of a female pirate. "She died in 1833."

"I say, you've a mind like a miscellany," Captain Lestrade stated and Sherlock expected some witty rejoinder from one of the Misses Hooper, still leaning close to John like flies round a honeypot, but John simply pronounced, "Say, encyclopaedia, rather, and you'll be nearer the mark; it appears to all be carefully organised."

Sherlock felt flames light on his cheeks at the distant praise. How he longed for John to give those words full meaning and let him know he was truly forgiven! _A heart open to love_ was what he had thrown away, and now, it was what beat futilely in his chest. "A newspaper article caught my eye," he demurred, and soon the meal was done.

*

For his part, John had heard the name "Sherlock" from Dimmock upon entering the room and prepared himself for an onslaught of the beauty and charm he remembered; he was dismayed at the vision of ill-health he found. What had happened to his poor darling, that his skin had gone from pearl to chalk, his eyes from sparkling to dull, his figure from soft and elastic to gaunt and brittle? John bowed to Sherlock as if meeting him for the first time, and indeed it felt as if a stranger stood in the place of the boy and man he'd loved so well. 

He had expected a splendid man matched with a beautiful and accomplished husband or wife, or perhaps an intensely learned man with no time to devote to matters of the heart; Sherlock's letter had been quite clear that John had not met his standards as a lover or even a friend. But this haggard, unhappy figure was beyond John's comprehension, and he could not blame Gregory's hesitancy in speaking of him once they removed to the cottage that had been set aside for their particular use.

"So that was your Sherlock?" Gregory asked whilst drying his face, allowing the words to be muffled in the cloth.

"Indeed, but so altered I might have passed him on the street and not known him!" John wondered aloud. "Always in my mind he had the fresh glow of youth, that perfect ripening beauty. Care has weighed heavily on him since last I saw him."

"Come, come!" Gregory expostulated. "The boy seduced you into a declaration and then gave you up the next day; you must not be mastered by that tender heart of yours again, John."

John's private hope had been that Sherlock had been induced to break with him, but Lestrade's decisive words forced him to acknowledge the unlikelihood of so brilliant and headstrong a person as Sherlock being persuaded to disobey his own sweet will. He took his own turn at the ewer and determined to pursue a different topic. "How have you found your cousins? Do you remember them from long-ago days?"

"Molly, perhaps; there was a brown-haired child here when last I visited on leave, but the existence of the other two was surprise enough. Their father was a good man, of stern sense. Unless I'm much mistaken, Miss Sally's inherited his character and her mother's looks. She was quite the belle of the county in her day."

"Miss Sally's looks are most pleasing," John acknowledged; "there is something very fine in her eyes, and her intelligence is quite evident."

"Not but what Miss Anthea is most agreeable," Gregory said, recalling her unconscious and bewitching trick of letting her mouth fall open in mingled excitement and dread as he told – and, naturally, embellished – a tale of the hardships he'd undergone whilst defending the _Fox_ against England's most bloodthirsty enemies.

"Yes," John agreed as a matter of course, though his mind was elsewhere.

*

A shooting-party should undoubtedly have been got up for the amusement of the two captains, had both not pronounced themselves disinclined to handle firearms on dry land. Sherlock had rather hoped they would go out and shoot, that he might have some cover for the thunderous beating of his heart whenever John was in proximity. In vain did he tell himself to consider all of this as an experiment in what stimulus was necessary to make his skin tingle with anticipation: was it the sound of John's voice, the heat of his body next to Sherlock's, or merely the sight of him caught by Sherlock's disobedient eyes in a series of gold-and-blue glimpses? 

Still, some pastime must be offered, to show that the Hoopers were not entirely provincial, and as the weather had disobliged by being very wet and muddy, a ramble over the green and pleasant land of their holdings was declared impossible. Sherlock mutinously thought to himself that a solitary walk in the rain sounded positively restful, but could not take himself off without exciting comment. Finally Miss Anthea suggested a dance, with the ladies refreshing the memories of the naval gentlemen on the matter of the dances of their earlier youth, and the captains instructing the ladies on the latest fads from across the globe. As there were fewer ladies than gentlemen, Sherlock was asked to provide the music, and a servant brought the violin.

Playing his beloved violin had never been so dangerous a pastime, Sherlock reflected; John had once upon a time read him as easily as he would the freshly cut pages of a novel, and surely the music he made would speak just as directly to John's ready ear. Sherlock resolved not to allow any yearning tones to emanate from the instrument, playing instead a series of sprightly, quick-tempo melodies suitable for dancing. His eyes tracked John's upright figure, gliding through the movements with both gaiety and grace, though his shoulder was evidently not up to the stretching required by the ländler; by some stroke of luck or even intelligence – Sherlock grit his teeth as he had to acknowledge her claim to that quality – Sally had divined his injury and made a most elegant substitution so that her hand curled around the nape of John's neck, just touching the soft strands of his hair, rather than forcing his to meet hers high above their heads.

John, touched by Sally's delicacy and imagination, smiled on her warmly as their dance continued for a few measures more and then ended. During the applause for the musician, he felt his smile slipping at the sight of Sherlock, cheeks lit with a hectic flush and knuckles white with some tension. All of the medical instincts John had honed under Dr. Murray warned that Sherlock was seriously ill. He gave Sally's hands a gentle squeeze and left her, walking towards Sherlock, whose glassy eyes evidently saw him not. He tried to think solely as the doctor might, uncurling Sherlock's long fingers from the polished wood of the instrument, catching it as it fell from Sherlock's grasp. John felt his own neck redden as Sherlock's gaze went from soft to sharp and focused on him. "I fear you are unwell. Permit me to ring for a servant." Sherlock said nothing, and John doubted his own judgement when he was this close to the man he'd dreamt of for years that had been long and lonely.

"Sherlock can't be ill; he's our apothecary!" Dimmock cried, a foolish laugh breaking the declaration in two, and John kept determined hold of his temper. 

"Then he has overtaxed his strength," John said firmly, uncaring how poor his manners were. The moment he raised his eyes to Sherlock's, however, Sherlock averted his gaze. So Sherlock felt he could very well do without any interference, John saw, feeling it like a blow. "My apologies; I have overstepped," he said, retreating one pace, bowing to the room before quitting it. He only realised once he crossed the threshold of the cottage that he still had hold of Sherlock's violin.

He set it carefully down on the nearest table, gritted his teeth, and made ready to apologise. Gregory's grey head appeared not very many minutes later. Before he could say a word, Gregory spoke. "I have made your excuses to the Hoopers."

"I should not have –"

"What? You should not have reached out a hand to help someone who needed you?" Gregory asked, surprising John into silence. "You would not be John Watson if you refrained. I have said nothing to you, but I would not have you think I am ignorant of how great a service you rendered me when you ensured that you were the one to bring me word that Sarah was dead. Harry I could not have borne just then – why should she be happy with one sister whilst I had lost the other? But you had lost someone too, and your care for me during those darkest days kept me afloat. Nay," he said, raising his hand, "I do not speak it only to have you deny it. Believe me, I beg of you, when I say you owe no apologies or excuses for your conduct then or now."

"I had realised," John said slowly, "that sojourning with Harry and Clara would likely be painful for you, but I had hoped – there has been an ease evident in your manner when you are tête-à-tête with Miss Anthea – I thought perhaps –"

"Do you see?" Gregory asked, a low laugh escaping his lips. "You are still seeking to mend me. I do find Anthea's company restful; her chatter is so inane as to allow me to pursue my own thoughts, which I assure you have not strayed far from what I have lost. Miss Sally enquired after the cause of your solicitous care of me, in fact."

"That girl sees much more than I had intended to reveal," John answered, chagrined at his own evident transparency. "Then she must also have seen –?"

"Nay, Mr. Sherlock Holmes is still too unaccountable to them after years of his company for even Sally to have plumbed his depths; all she supposed was that he had got overheated in that close room, and that your experienced eye had seen it first." Gregory smiled ruefully before delivering himself of a final word on the matter. "I do believe that, much as I needed you then, your Sherlock needs you just as much at present."

*

Conscious of his long-ago promise to his godfather, Sherlock breakfasted, but did so early, before he was likely to be bothered with any company. Several letters, still sealed, lay on his desk, including one from Lord Mycroft himself. Once he sat down to his correspondence, however, he found his hand clutched a pen in vain; his thoughts were disgracefully jumbled in his mind. Had it been more than compassion that had spurred John to his act of mercy, or would he have done the same for anyone else in the room?

One glance at his looking-glass assured Sherlock that it would be mad to ascribe John's intervention to any lingering devotion; his face was sallow and there were dark hollows beneath his eyes. He resolutely turned his back on his reflection and settled down to his neglected correspondence once more. 

He slit open a letter from Dr. Lennox, expecting another update on the geological survey, but found instead an invitation to contribute to that survey by exploring the inland regions of Somersetshire and sending his observations and specimens – special attention to be paid to the amphibians to whose study Sherlock had long intended to devote himself – to the team in London. His mind whirled with the possibilities. Such a purpose would give meaning to the work for which he had been persuaded to forsake John all those long years ago, and would be healthful too, as nothing ran him down as too much time indoors amongst people, rather than out in the elements, focusing on the wonders of Nature. It would cost him more than a pang to give up seeing John, but the truly wrenching break had already been made years ago, and was renewed every day that Sherlock had to look upon those lambent eyes and trim form and eat his heart in silence. 

With a gladdened spirit, he picked up his pen to answer Dr. Lennox's inquiry and wrote to Lord Mycroft in much the same vein. Fortified to face even his brother's incessant complaints, he rejoined the others, who were preparing to take a picnic luncheon out to the most picturesque landscape within the Hoopers' enclosure; the scheme was urged on by Captain Lestrade, who professed to be enchanted by Miss Anthea's watercolour of the spot, which had been framed and hung in pride of place. With no intention of eating or even conversing, Sherlock allowed himself to be urged to join the party, feeling rightly that such a glorious day should not be wasted on indoor pursuits.

With the wind buffeting his body and disordering his hair, Sherlock rambled as the mood took him, though taking care to keep as much distance as possible between himself and Molly and Dimmock. His thoughts died down to a contented silence as he raised his face to the sun and basked in its heat.

But even the sunshine, sparkling though it was, could not brighten his mood when he looked up to see John's and Sally's heads close together, dark and bright nearly touching as they examined a hedge-row of nuts, or worse, the sight of the two of them speaking quietly and seriously, undisturbed by even a stiff breeze that blew one of her loosed curls onto his sturdy shoulder.

*

John lifted his eyes from Sally's shyly proffered sketchbook after careful consideration. "These are splendid. You are most proficient with your pencils; it is as if you have shown me what exactly my unthinking gaze has carelessly swept over."

She shook her head earnestly. "My sister's –"

"Miss Anthea's watercolours do indeed capture the feelings she experienced at the time of their painting and invite the viewer's sympathy, but yours are so finely detailed as to instruct him instead." John returned the sketchbook to her and waited for her to break the ensuing silence.

"Captain Watson," she began, for all her hesitation still looking him in the eye, "I believe I have information you will find interesting, and perhaps even useful."

"Do not tell me we are at war again, I pray; I should be loath to leave you, much though I miss the _Ardent_."

"This has to do with circumstances more domestic," she began, seating herself on the step of a stile that had been warmed by the sun. "I do not think you would have heard how my sister came to marry Mr. Dimmock Holmes?"

"Indeed I have not," John responded, much surprised but not displeased by the prospective confidence.

"Dimmock is well enough, but her first choice was always Sherlock; she became infatuated with him the moment he returned to Holmes Hall after so many years with his uncle. It is not to injure her that I tell you this, though I must own that I will not appear in so fine a light as I would wish."

"Pray continue."

"Sherlock Holmes turned my sister's head but accepted no responsibility; he ignored her every hint, her every sigh. She grew ill and unhappy, and for that I blamed him. I did not allow myself to acknowledge that he too was fading, perhaps even more quickly than she, for then I might have understood he was truly ignorant of the havoc he wreaked." Her fine eyes were dark and deep and soft. "It is only with your arrival that I have seen him begin to live again, and I believe the same might be said of you."

John started as all of his thoughts were pulled away from inchoate images of Sherlock with Molly and toward a realisation of how clearly his every deed and word had betrayed the state of his heart. He smiled wryly. "I told Gregory you were far too sharp-eyed not to see through me," he remarked, confounded by the rosy flush that suffused her delicate features.

"You've spoken of me to him?" she asked, eyes averted at last as she breathed quickly and raised her face to let the passing breeze cool it.

"Indeed, my dear girl," he said, smiling, enjoying the rather novel ability to reciprocate her keenness. "He has suffered a terrible loss, but he is not insensible to beauty and wit and kindness, least of all when they are joined in a single person."

"Have I cause to hope, then?" she breathed quietly, leaning toward him.

"Have I?" he asked, not daring to look in Sherlock's direction, and she gave him a slight but decided nod.

* * *

There was an understanding between John and Sally, that much Sherlock could see very well, though there had been no formal congratulations or announcements made. It was evident in the way they turned to each other first, eyes fixed on each other, whenever her family or his friend offered any remark. Sherlock felt the full weight of agony in each breath he took at the thought of John as Sally's husband, devoted and loving, his love clearly requited; he would kiss her with that wonderfully expressive and talented mouth, hold her against the pliant firmness of his browned body, and stroke her skin with roughened hands taught to be tender. 

He could bear no more. "I wish you all good-night." 

"Sherlock, must you really go upon this expedition?" Molly asked wistfully.

"To look at bugs and vermin?" Dimmock chimed in. "That cannot be healthy, dear brother; you had much better stay on."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "It is a splendid opportunity offered by a man whose intellect I respect most highly. I shall spend the morrow packing and set out the following morning."

"Where will you go?" John asked, and Sherlock's breath caught at the eyes John was raising to his face, which seemed larger than ever and gleamed with emotion.

"To Bath. I am to gather information on the geological details of the area, along with indigenous flora and fauna, for a survey that will, I am confident, advance our understanding of our world."

"To Bath!" John echoed, surprised. "I have determined to journey thence myself, as my parents settled quite comfortably there some two years ago. May I accompany you?"

Sherlock's racing heart felt lodged in his throat; he could scarcely draw breath at the proposition – to have John to himself for the full day's journey, to be able to add materially to John's happiness by seeing him united once more with his parents – such felicity was inconceivable!

"To Bath! Oh, how I have longed to try the waters, though I doubt they would do much for me," Dimmock put in, and Sherlock closed his eyes, recognising the evanescence of his dream.

"Why should not we all go? Surely some lodging might be found to suit our party?" Molly asked.

"With your leave, Sherlock, we'll all join you and John," Captain Lestrade said, his tone indicating a level of disapproval; Sherlock had his answer then and resolved to put away his dreams of John for good.

*

"The ladies are in need of some refreshment," John said, apologetically enough that Sherlock held his tongue. "There is an inn that looks most suitable; may we stop?"

The dining-room of the inn stood empty, and the landlord seemed more than pleased to stoke the fire and bring out a plentiful cold luncheon. A picnic spirit prevailed, and the party made merry. John took charge of carving and serving the meat, and though he affected to have lost count of the number of plates he made up, Sherlock's conviction was that John had, most delicately, contrived to put a hearty portion of the meal before him; though John was undoubtedly acting as a medical authority rather than as a lover, Sherlock could not do otherwise than oblige him by partaking without complaint.

The conversation quickly turned to John's parents, who had been resident in Bath since the spring of 1835. Anthea enquired artlessly if they had had need of the healing waters, and John's face brightened as he issued a sound negative. "They have always been of good health, fortunately, and wished to spend some years in a place where they were always assured of lively society and amusements." Sherlock found in this account the solution to one small mystery that had been puzzling him; clearly John had chosen to use the bulk of the prize-money he had won to support his parents in their dotage rather than buy himself the luxuries to which he had long been unaccustomed.

"What do they do there?" Sally asked.

"You shall know as soon as I do, for I have not been in Bath since they removed there. I believe, however, that the public concerts were a significant factor in their decision to settle in Bath."

This statement provoked an animated discussion of the concerts they might attend whilst visiting the town, which was broken only by the landlord's entrance with another several dishes. "Happen there's another gentleman wanting some luncheon," he said diffidently. "Would the ladies consent to his entrance?"

A hearty affirmative being given, the landlord bowed and exited, and shortly thereafter the door admitted a gentleman of about Lestrade's height with brown hair and beard. He bowed to the company at large, and Sherlock could not help approving of his careful observation of each of them, as it had so much the air of a scientific sensibility. As the man's eyes came to rest on him, Sherlock was surprised by the smile on the man's face as much as the bow made exclusively to him. Before any one of them could enquire after the man's name, the landlord bustled back in with an individual serving-dish and the man began to eat, quickly, as though he had some further engagement before the day was done.

Sherlock smiled at the sight of ink on the man's finger and turned back to his own party, only to find John's eyes on him.

*

Sherlock's mouth went dry when he saw that John had, by some mysterious process, contrived to look more splendid than ever, every button of his uniform positively gleaming and reflecting the radiance of his smile. John stood with his hands clasped at the small of his back – Sherlock recalled how well that sweet hollow had fit his hands – and waited impatiently for his knock to be answered. When at last the door was opened by a woman, aged and wrinkled and yet upright and hardy, he fairly launched himself forward; Sherlock observed that John must have learnt his trick of crying merry tears from the woman he called his mother, who was even now petting and caressing him as if he had been a child still and not a captain in the Navy.

John's mother recollected herself after only a moment and declined further introductions until she had seen her guests seated and refreshed. "You must be Captain Lestrade," said her husband, whom she had summoned and who bore the tea-tray with his own gnarled hands, and Lestrade stood to greet him properly. "The likeness of you he brought home was very fine."

Sherlock saw immediately that he had been recognised as well, though neither the farmer nor his wife understood how he had come to be part of John's travelling party. He resigned himself to disappointment – their demeanour made him sure he would have been happy in their company – only to feel Mrs. Croft's hand rest maternally on his arm as she handed him his tea. He felt absurdly warmed by the gesture and gave her his best smile once she found a seat next to John; she returned it even as her hand drifted protectively toward her son.

John felt himself to be quite in his element, though he had never set foot in Bath before; his parents' calm and cheer always settled him, and it was most pleasing to be able to repay the Hoopers' hospitality. The sight of Gregory conversing animatedly with his father was one that did his heart good, and his mother's laughter was as clear and delighted as that of the Misses Hooper. Even Dimmock had, by attaching himself to his wife, contrived to join a conversational circle. It was only Sherlock who remained silent, and at the sight of him, beautiful and altogether too fine for the plain and sturdy furniture with which his parents had equipped their house, John was forcibly reminded of the difference in their stations. That man at the inn who had evidently admired Sherlock had been a gentleman, not someone whose fortunes were dependent upon his recent entry into the officer class, and Sherlock had recognised that and smiled. That the smile had been absent-minded had wounded John all the more, for when had Sherlock ever been absent-minded, forgetful of anything else whilst his work remained?

*

Sherlock made all possible haste to remove himself from the Crofts' house as evening fell; seeing John made much of cast his mind back to their halcyon days with a sharpness that bordered on pain. He was surprised by Captain Lestrade requesting him to delay but a moment, more so when the captain announced his intention of putting up at a nearby inn and offering to share his room with Sherlock. Molly and Dimmock would take the next room, and Sally and Anthea the third, Captain Lestrade announced – rather high-handedly – and thus the matter was settled despite the protests of the Crofts. John, of course, was to stay with them, and Sherlock could not regret the distance between them. The work needed the whole of his attention, and John disordered his mind far too easily.

In the morning, he made his simple toilet of rough clothing suited to all weathers and walked to the river, carrying his supplies with him. He felt a thrill at the thought of the species he would encounter, though of course they would not be so very different from those he had seen before on his uncle's property. He made one quick sketch of the stretch of river before him and then dipped his net gently into the water. Some fronds and fallen leaves made up the entirety of his first haul, but the rhythm of the work was soothing and beneficial. 

He was sketching a small fish with pink scales – quickly, to be able to return the pretty creature to the water before it expired – when he heard an unfamiliar voice at his elbow. "I neglected to ask your name, and have wished for the opportunity to rectify my error," said the man from the inn. "I had not thought to meet you here."

Sherlock dropped the end of his net overhastily into the water, splashing the tips of the stranger's polished boots. "I beg your pardon, you startled me, sir."

"Then it is I who must beg pardon," the man said, making an elaborate bow. "Sir William Anderson, at your service."

Sherlock read what he could from the man's person. "You are also here for Dr. Lennox's survey and have come to determine the lay of the land before beginning in earnest, as you carry no equipment with you, not even a pencil for taking measurements or notes. And yet you were engaged in writing this very morning, as the ink on your forefinger and a callus on the next indicate. What, pray, is your special field?"

"I am interested in all of life," Anderson proclaimed, "and am working toward a theory that will unify the entirety of our painstakingly gathered and verified knowledge about the evolution of living creatures. But, my dear sir, you have not granted me the one piece of information I have requested."

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, flushing wretchedly at his oversight.

"A name that has long intrigued me!" Anderson exclaimed, and Sherlock frowned, not understanding and wishing the man would modulate the volume of his voice; some of the wildlife was bound to be startled by any human incursion.

"How so?"

"We are relations, Sherlock," Anderson said, promptly embracing him. "Your father and mine were cousins, and I have lately inherited the title that was once your sire's from my own."

Sherlock was aware that he had long neglected all of his relations, with the exception of Lord Mycroft; they held no interest for him and he assumed the reverse was true for them, else they would have descended on Holmes Hall _en masse_ , clamouring for his attention, which was needed elsewhere. "My sister remains at Holmes Hall, but my brother is here in Bath and would be most pleased to receive you."

"Good company can never come amiss," Anderson said heartily, and Sherlock nodded politely and turned his attention back to his drawing.

*

By the time dusk fell, Sherlock had not made much progress in investigating the amphibian life of the river, as Anderson had remained close at hand, his observations seeming far less focused than Sherlock's, though perhaps necessarily so, given the breadth of his topic. The sun was shooting crimson beams along the water when Sherlock began to walk back to his inn, Anderson accompanying him as his own lodgings were on the same street. Along the street came an upright, manly figure cloaked in a greatcoat that emphasized the breadth of the shoulders, and Sherlock could not help but recognise John, walking with an eager step back to his parents' house, a packet of letters in his hand.

Their paths would inevitably cross, but John, engrossed in the play of dying light on the buildings, failed to see him until the last possible moment. When he came to a halt in front of Sherlock, the last of the scarlet sun drew a line across his cheek, darkening his liquid eyes. "Good evening, Sherlock," John said, and Sherlock thought that it should not be too much to ask, that he get to hear John's voice pronouncing his name each day for the rest of his life.

"Good evening, John. May I present Sir William Anderson? Sir William, Captain John Watson of His Majesty's Navy."

John's expressive face went still, leaving only a mask of politeness. "The pleasure is mine, sir," he said with a formal bow.

"No, no, good sir, it must be mine," Anderson protested, though his bow was clumsy enough to require him to make use of Sherlock's steadying hand. Before Sherlock could disengage himself, John had nodded and departed, leaving Sherlock to turn as discreetly as he could to watch the last flutterings of the greatcoat's cape as he went.

*

The day being characterised by heavy rains and premature darkness, Sherlock was engaged upon research of a theoretical rather than a practical bent. Captain Lestrade was occupying the writing-table, composing a lengthy missive – no, Sherlock amended, not a letter with an audience, given the speed with which he both wrote and struck the words that poured from his pen. It might be an entry in a journal. Sherlock wondered if the act of writing was in any way cathartic for Lestrade, as his violin had been for him, then considered the catalyst for this outpouring of feeling. Though Lestrade usually partnered Anthea at whist, Sherlock had not discerned that he was motivated by any tender emotion; rather, it seemed to fall to him to do so, as John and Sally had implicitly claimed each other.

Sherlock caught himself before he abandoned his reading for yearning once more for John, though he smiled wryly at his mind's insistence that John was in fact perfectly applicable to his course of study. Anderson had outlined his theory of evolution for Sherlock only last night, while the river creatures sang in the dusk, speaking of traits passed from parent to child, and Sherlock had immediately thought of John's unknown natural parents, who must have shaped him to be thus. But had the Crofts had no influence on the child they had raised? Sherlock could not believe that to be so, though Anderson's theory stated that only biological inheritance had determined the balance of John's humours.

The second half of Anderson's theory was far more intriguing, as it dealt with the issue from the opposite direction: evolution of species through its individual members. It was Anderson's contention that a species could, in desiring an adaptation to better suit it to its environment, realise that desire and, consequently, pass that adaptation on to the subsequent generation. That required careful thought, and Sherlock could hardly bring his mind to bear on a problem of that scope with the agitated scratchings of Lestrade's pen disturbing the silence he sought.

"May I ask, is anything troubling you, Captain Lestrade?" 

Sherlock was surprised to see Lestrade's eyes widen with what looked very like guilt. "I – I assure you –" the man began, strain overwriting his handsome features. "It is no use; I must speak with John."

Sherlock's heart beat more quickly at the very name. "Has something happened to your friend?"

"My friend," Lestrade repeated dully, closing his eyes as if to gather himself. "My truest friend, yes, to whom I have been false."

Sherlock stood abruptly, unable to contain his emotions. "Has Captain Watson suffered some injury at your hands?"

"I pray not," Lestrade said fervently, then snatched up his hat and greatcoat. "You must excuse me, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock sat dumb as Lestrade swept out of the room, the candles' flames bending in the draft caused by his hasty departure. At long last he rose and approached the writing-desk, intent on copying fair the notes he had made the previous day, only to discover a remnant of Lestrade's writings. There was a poem – a draft, not a memory, Sherlock saw from the struck words and the fumbling for a rhyme scheme – on the page in front of him, a paean to the many charms of Miss Sally Hooper, and Sherlock reeled from the revelation. Was this a just repayment for John's generous attachment to his fellow captain? Sherlock burned with indignation, but could not quash the hope that bloomed within his heart, that Sally might requite Lestrade's feelings and thereby release John; a second thought, however convinced him of the futility of wishing. Having gained John, would any woman – would any thinking, feeling being – relinquish such a claim?

It was no use sitting quietly in his room and trying to impose order on his thoughts; he was tossed about like a ship in a tempest. Perhaps a public concert, as John had spoken of, would do him good. He donned fresh clothes and rang for a carriage.

He was in luck – the evening's concert featured the violin, and the programme indicated a selection of several of his favourite compositions. He had just seated himself when he caught sight John sitting with his parents a few rows ahead of him. The strong lines of his back and neck drew Sherlock's eyes irresistibly, and he discovered the overwhelming raptures of listening to Sarasate whilst fixing his gaze on John's bright beauty. There was a brief interval after the Sarasate, and Sherlock was startled to see Lestrade's tall form hastening down the aisle, evidently in search of John. When at last Lestrade found him, John looked up with a ready smile that quite turned Sherlock's heart over; he deliberately turned his back so as not to catch the eye of either gentleman as they made their way outside the concert-room, but fixed his attention on them as soon as they had safely passed.

Lestrade appeared to be quite at the end of his tether and to be pleading his case before John, who wore a shocked expression. Sherlock noted how fine John's mouth looked as it shaped the name "Sally" and turned away in despair. He had been quite right not to hope, after all. 

John returned to his seat just before the next piece began, and Sherlock could just make out, through the tears welling in his eyes, John's crown of old-gold hair, precisely the colour of the gilt frames of all the portraits in Lord Mycroft's family collection.

*

John had, with his implicit agreement with Sally, determined to aid her in gaining the heart of his friend Lestrade. Both would gain very materially from the match; her intelligence and vivacity must cheer him out of his gloom, and his valour and good sense would allow him to offer her more congenial society than she could find with her sisters, however devoted to them she was. Still, though he could not deny Sally's charms, he spared a thought for the lost Sarah, with whom he had thought to see his friend happy, and hoped she would not be wounded by the speed with which Lestrade's heart had evidently mended.

Perhaps Lestrade had the right of it; certainly he had not gained anything by cleaving so tenaciously to the memory of Sherlock. His parents wished for nothing more than his felicity, to be sure, but their happiness would have been materially increased by sharing their lives with his spouse. But it was of no use to remonstrate thus. Sherlock Holmes had captured his heart in one summer and had never relinquished his hold. It did not matter that John could not offer Sherlock learned discussions of his work, like Anderson, or sweetness of temper like Molly. These various admirers had changed none of John's wishes, whatever effect they had on Sherlock, and John smiled grimly to himself, thinking of Sherlock's recovered bloom and beauty, before extinguishing the candles and lying in his bed.

*

Lestrade's happiness made him expansive, and he would not brook a refusal of his invitation to the Crofts' house for a small gathering. In vain Sherlock protested that he was currently occupied with his work; Lestrade reiterated that, as Sally's brother-in-law, Sherlock was required to attend the function. Sherlock relented with bad grace, unable to calibrate his own relief against John's certain sorrow. John would be keeping a brave face on, assuring even his own beloved parents that Sally and Lestrade belonged together. Sherlock did not think he could bear watching such a spectacle.

Indeed, John played his part so well that Sherlock began to think that John had missed his calling and the stage had lost the premier actor of their generation. His eyes seemed to brighten at the sight of Sally and Lestrade murmuring contentedly together, their uplifted air assuring all onlookers of the sincerity of their attachment, and Sherlock noted that the Crofts were similarly genuine in their felicitations. Sherlock could not doubt the evidence collected by his own eyes, which prompted him to wonder at the generosity of spirit John evinced. More than ever, he yearned to have John's heart open before him, to see if his own name was still writ there, however small.

A knock at the door brought about a lull in the gaiety, and Mrs. Croft excused herself to answer it. She was gone for some minutes, and Sherlock was startled to see his uncle following her when she returned. "Lord Mycroft," Mr. Croft greeted, bowing, and his son did the same, prompting a flurry of bows and curtseys. 

"Uncle," Sherlock said last with his own bow. The years since he had last seen his uncle had been rendered in fine lines on the man's face, at once dear and distant; London had not left him unmarked.

"Dear child," Lord Mycroft said warmly. "Might I impose upon you to accompany me?"

No one dared refuse Lord Mycroft anything, and in any case Sherlock knew he had not added to the conviviality of the gathering. "Of course, Uncle," he murmured, unable to resist one last look at John, whose look of gravity became him extremely well.

*

Lord Mycroft insisted upon their sharing a meal, so Sherlock accompanied him to his lodging, where a bevy of servants had laid the table and were ready to serve a sumptuous repast. "Sherlock," Lord Mycroft said, as they waited for the clear soup to be brought in, "I have never forced your confidence, but have been blessed to know myself your chief confidant."

"Yes, Uncle," Sherlock said dutifully.

"And yet, child, it has been eight years since last we spoke about anything other than your work or mine; I can only conclude that either I have been denied an understanding of the workings of your heart, or that you have locked it up tight and impervious to any suitor." Lord Mycroft looked immensely wise, and Sherlock, recalling how much he missed this good man's warm esteem, could not answer.

"I have done you a great disservice, then," Lord Mycroft said quietly. 

"No!" Sherlock protested. "No, Uncle, you mustn't –"

"But I have," Lord Mycroft said firmly. "I had not meant, in dissuading you from accepting the proposal of John Watson, to keep you from happiness, but that is very evidently what I have done. I had intended to safeguard you from the fortunes of the world and succeeded only in denying you its joys. Have my recent actions come too late?"

Sherlock was bewildered; though he had regretted his spurning of John almost from the moment he had carried it out, he had never assigned blame of any kind or degree to his uncle, who had earned the trust Sherlock placed in him many times over. "What means this apologia? To what recent actions do you refer?"

"I have some influence in public works, as you know, and I was able to persuade the organisers of the Geological Survey – who were, I assure you, already intent upon soliciting your participation – that the best location for your researches would be here in Bath."

"But why?"

"Because Bath is where the worthy parents of the worthy John Watson have lived for some years, and surely where he would spend the majority of his leave."

"Then . . . you have been following his career?" Sherlock asked, confusion slowing his thoughts and words.

"Indeed. You chose most wisely, though you had no way of knowing."

Sherlock struggled to master himself; how long had he wanted his uncle's blessing, only to receive it after John's mended heart had been freshly broken!

"You were but a child then, Sherlock, and now you have not only a tested love for him but also the esteem of men of science across the globe."

"But it is too late, Uncle," Sherlock said, trying desperately to keep his unhappiness dammed up. "He has sought – and lost – another, and looks on me only with pity and the ashes of love."

Lord Mycroft frowned. "That cannot be."

"Would you have me stake my future on the notion that I alone in all the wide world am capable of awakening him to that joy he deserves?" Sherlock burst out in a torrent of emotion.

"Yes," Lord Mycroft said, a small smile lightening his expression, "for that is the notion upon which John has staked his own life."

*

Lord Mycroft had noted his nephew's recent decline with great alarm. Though Sherlock had left his care shortly after breaking off his engagement with John, Lord Mycroft had not been unduly worried by the move; a change of scenery – away from the setting in which he had come to know the sailor – would surely do Sherlock good, and in any case his father's house was as suitable as any other place. Lord Mycroft had moved to London at the same time, fully expecting Sherlock to regain his vivacity and spirit in short order by throwing himself into his work.

Vagaries of business kept Lord Mycroft from his godson's side for far longer than he had intended, and Sherlock wrote faithfully of his studies and research. But the tone of these missives was dull and heavy, as if Sherlock had to summon all of his energies simply to put pen to paper. No mention was made of anything but his work, and Lord Mycroft began to suspect that Sherlock's heart had been pledged more fully than he had realised.

The Navy – and in particular, Lieutenant John H. Watson – became the focus of Lord Mycroft's attention then, and all of the reports painted the lieutenant as a man whose record was impeccable and whose heart was open to none. In battles, he laid his own life on the line without hesitation, and after a grievous injury, that valour had earned him swift promotion and numerous commendations. His prize-money, despatched to his parents, had been more than sufficient to allow them to acquire sub-tenants for the land they had farmed and move to a centre of leisure in their golden years; Lord Mycroft had paid strict attention to these transactions and filed the information away for later use. Promptly upon hearing of John's extended leave, he wrote to Dr. Lennox to beg his intercession in assigning Sherlock to Bath and its environs; for the rest, Lord Mycroft trusted the persistent and sincere attachment Sherlock and John shared to overcome any obstacle.

He justly claimed most of the credit for manoeuvring Sherlock into the same city as John, but would not deny that the correspondence he had recently begun had done much to cheer and assure him that his machinations would not be in vain; Mrs. Croft was a delightful correspondent.

*

"It is not done, my dear Sherlock, to come to Bath and fail to partake of the healthful water," Anderson said, leaning in so that their faces were intimately close.

"But I am not ill," Sherlock pointed out, "and we will surely be interrupted if we are in the Pump-Room for all of Bath to see. May we not continue our discussion elsewhere?"

"Do not deny 'all of Bath' the sight of you!" Anderson said, all charm, and Sherlock was obliged to follow him.

He was saved from having to swallow any sulphurous liquid by Anderson straightening from his courtly bow just in time to collide with John, who was making his way into a nearby tearoom. "I beg your pardon –" John began, before realising who had inadvertently waylaid him. "Please, join me for a cup of tea."

Sherlock readily assented, buoyed by his uncle's unqualified assertion that John loved him still and eager to gather what evidence he could. "I should enjoy a cup of tea far more than the water served to invalids," he proclaimed, watching John's face ease into a delightful smile. Anderson protested briefly but followed with alacrity.

"Have you errands to run, or only yourselves to amuse on this fine day?" John asked politely as they sat.

"We are engaged upon our work, my good man," Anderson corrected. "Sherlock and I have been debating some of the finer points quite rousingly, but I do not believe the matter would interest a layman."

"I see," John said, sounding much abashed and tucking his square chin toward his chest, and Sherlock frowned, remembering that John had not had the benefit of any formal education but had learnt as he went; he was very much a self-made man.

"John is hardly a layman," he reproved lightly. "He has performed surgeries and taught me much about anatomy." He meant it only insofar as John's treasured sketches went, but could not help recalling the tender caresses to which John had treated his body, and felt his face grow flushed and warm. John's cheek and ear went rather a becoming pink, though he had the presence of mind to hide both with a long sip from his teacup.

"Indeed?" Anderson riposted. "I should be interested to know your views, then, on the evolution of species, Captain."

"Cousin William's theory," Sherlock said, leaning forward to catch John's eye and speak with his own, "is that any given generation of a species can choose to adapt to a given environment, and then such adaptations as are made will be inherited by subsequent generations."

"Evolution, then, depends upon desire?" John asked, thoughtful lines wrinkling his brow. "I do not see how that follows."

"Take the giraffe," Anderson said quickly, before Sherlock could point out that John had unerringly placed his finger on the weakest point of the theory. "It consumes vast amounts of leaves each day. One day the herd realises that there are no more leaves within their territory – none that may be reached, in any case. But the giraffes do not die out; they simply stretch their necks to reach the leaves that grow higher on the trees, and thus they survive. _Quod erat demonstrandum_ , giraffes have evolved long necks to ensure their own survival."

Sherlock had heard this example before, and waited for John to respond. "I do apologise, sir – I do not know what a giraffe is; I do not often spend time on land other than in England." John's eyes gleamed mischievously, though he had camouflaged their shine with a demure look downward before Anderson suspected a thing.

"Ah, yes, I see," Anderson responded. "Think, then, of the common, domestic frog. Whether it began on land and yearned for the water, or was born in the water and longed for land, it became 'amphibian' through its own choice. Do not you agree?"

"Surely that argues that all frogs became possessed of a singular desire at the same moment?" John asked pensively. "They sound far more harmonious than we human beings have managed, with our wars and empires."

"Simple creatures, my dear sir," Anderson dismissed, turning to Sherlock. "What say you, my dear Sherlock?"

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John. "I do not find the theory to have undergone sufficient rigorous proof for me to accept it, but the example you selected is captivating and worth consideration. A creature of the land longing for the water – half its life on one and half in the other – appears to have chosen the best of both worlds." His mind took him back to that glorious day in the lake, when he had been half in the water and wholly in John's strong arms, and he saw, above the teacups, John's eyes catch fire as the memory unfurled in his mind as well.

"It is a point we may discuss in greater detail tonight, dear cousin," Anderson agreed. "It is time we were leaving."

John stood, not tearing his eyes from Sherlock's, and Sherlock felt their magnetic pull as a shiver down his spine. "Good day to you, gentlemen."

"Good day," Sherlock said, turning to go and acutely conscious of every last inch of his body as it vibrated under John's glowing gaze.

*

"Bring your work along, if you must, but you will be joining us," Lestrade said firmly. "Mrs. Croft told me that Lord Mycroft insisted that I take responsibility for seeing that you eat and sleep regularly, and I have played truant all day."

"Your intended could tell you that I do very well without either food or rest," Sherlock pointed out, though only to rein in his spirit, dancing at the thought of seeing John again. He continued to make his fair copy of the notes he had made that day at the river.

"That is immaterial," Lestrade said. "Tidy your papers and let us be off."

*

His parents' house was once again full to bursting with the advent of six guests, but John found all his energies bent upon keeping Sherlock in view at all times. He appeared to be uncomfortable when the conversation turned to the wedding, though everyone else kept up a merry banter about wedding-clothes and special licenses. John sought some conversational tack to put him at ease, but nothing came to mind. At long last, he beckoned Sherlock toward the mantelpiece, where lay a small collection of stones. "I have begun to pocket any interestingly shaped rocks on my morning walks," he said self-deprecatingly, "though I could not name a single type. Would you be so good as to tell me what I have here?"

Sherlock's long, elegant fingers picked up and cradled one jagged specimen, glittering with chips even by firelight; it would sparkle more beautifully still in the sunshine. "Have you a steadier light?" he asked quietly, and John nodded, startled that his conversational gambit had been received thus.

"Of course," he said, leading the way to the small library where he was wont to spend late evenings; he lit a pair of candles and turned to find Sherlock still on the other side of the room. "Sherlock?" he asked, and then Sherlock strode across the floor and caught him in arms grown iron and John heard the sound of a sob caught in the long glory of Sherlock's throat that he needed to hush, and his mouth found Sherlock's, half-opened and soft.

"I have loved only you," John heard himself murmuring between sips from the nectar of Sherlock's ruby lips and Sherlock alternately shivered and stilled in his arms, seemingly unable to speak at all. "I cannot be parted from you again."

"No," Sherlock breathed, at long last, "we shall not, we shall never. John. I love you still."

John crushed him close at that, not quite able to believe that he held in his arms what he had lost so long ago. The words Sherlock finally found were enough to convince him that some part, at least, of his shock of joy was real: "I must endeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune, that you love me now as you loved me then. I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve, that you may never doubt me again, John."

* * *

**1838 and on**  
John was not superstitious as sailors in Her Majesty's Navy were commonly supposed to be, but Sherlock indulged him in one small sentiment and carried that rock on all of their voyages. It was in his pocket whenever he disembarked to study the marine life of whatever area of the globe they had journeyed to. As a talisman, it served them well, John seeing in its fiery glitter the sparkle of Sherlock's eyes that had first captivated him, and Sherlock understanding the solid strength of stone to be analogous to John's steady heart. As a charm, it was highly effective, as the _Ardent_ pulled through all its many battles with minimal damage and few losses. John and Sherlock credited it with much, this witness to the reunion that lasted the rest of their days.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wonders Enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2187441) by [nox_candida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida)




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